


The Fugitives

by ChampagneCorkForest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bathtub Sex, Blind Character, Breaking and Entering, Crossdressing, Fix-It of Sorts, Hiding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Not in a sexy way, On the Run, Oral Sex, Police, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneCorkForest/pseuds/ChampagneCorkForest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas stops Edward from killing himself and they run away together, but when an over-eager detective jumps to conclusions, Thomas finds himself wanted for murder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lieutenant Courtenay was missing and his bed sheets were stained with blood. Corporal Barrow had also disappeared, and so Detective Inspector Farnham drew the obvious conclusion: Corporal Barrow had murdered the blind lieutenant in his bed, hid the body, and then fled. 

There was no apparent motive, but Lieutenant Courtenay was a gentleman, and there were rumors of Barrow stealing when he'd worked at the manor. Perhaps Courtenay had with him some expensive trinket that Barrow had taken a liking to. Or perhaps they'd quarreled. Barrow was by all accounts a quarrelsome fellow. No one seemed to like him much; only Nurse Crawley, the young Lady from the house, defended him. She had been working alongside him, and said that Barrow and Courtenay had been close. But she was a kindly soul, naive, and unwilling to see the bad in anyone.

***

"You should have said something," Thomas pleaded, deftly making a tourniquet.

"I said I wasn't ready; what more could I have said," Edward replied. He was calm now, but his face was so coated in tears that it was as though he were wearing a mask of thin glass.

"If I'd have known what you were planning…" Thomas trailed off in exasperation. Edward would need stitches, and how was he supposed to accomplish that in the dark?

"Then you could have changed his mind?” Edward shook his head. “You tried as hard as you could."

"I wouldn't have gone to Clarkson at all, I'd have taken you away with me."

"Would you really?" Edward asked in wonder. For the first time since Clarkson told him the news he looked hopeful.

"I'll have to now, won't I? Or they'll send you to a madhouse."

"Where could we go? It's desertion, still, even in our state. If they find us we'll be shot."

"Are you all of a sudden afraid to die?" Thomas asked, still angry at him for what he'd done to himself. Edward sighed.

"I'd rather die by your side than go on living without you, but I'd rather you didn't die by mine." 

Thomas didn't know what to do with that information. He and Edward had had a bit of fun when they could get away from prying eyes, and Thomas had thought that was all it was to Edward, a bit of fun. To know that he would do something so dreadful for the want of him, filled him with a curious mixture of pride and shame.

"Well I'd rather we both live, and I reckon between the two of us we're clever enough to pull it off," Thomas said. 

"All I know is poetry and agriculture," Edward lamented.

"You managed to nick that razor without even knowing if you was being looked at; you're practically a criminal mastermind."

Thomas helped Edward from his bed and they carefully groped their way to the infirmary. Thomas was almost as blind as Edward in the darkness, but he dared not light a lamp. They couldn't let themselves be seen. Edward, weak from having lost so much blood, leaned heavily on his side.

The infirmary was locked, but Thomas knew a thing or two about locks and was able to get past it in a tense minute. Once inside he leaned a chair against the door knob and turned on the light, which hurt his eyes after so much darkness. But he would need all the light he could get to perform the delicate work of sewing up Edward's wounds.

He helped Edward to lie down and then set to work on the locked supplies cabinet.

“I can't give you as much morphine as I'd like, we've got a walk ahead of us,” he said.

“I don't need it then,” Edward replied.

“You've put yourself through enough pain for one night.” He slid down Edwards pajama bottoms so he could inject him in the leg; Edward looked confused for a minute until he felt the prick of the needle. "If I put it in your arm, you'll bleed it right out again," Thomas said. There was still anger in his voice, but his hands stroked him soothingly.

He washed the blood from Edward's arms and surveyed the damage. They were a mess of hesitation marks and longer, more savage cuts. It can be hard enough to find a vein when you can see, Thomas knew from giving countless injections; poor Edward had had to go on feel. 

Thomas laid out his suture kit. He was good at sutures. Many of the men he'd trained beside had signed up not knowing how to sew on a button, but Thomas was a valet, or near enough. Delicate work, attention to detail, the gentle touch. That was his métier. Usually when he was sewing some poor boy's skin back together he tried to pretend he was mending a shirt. If you sympathized too much it became a trial just to get the needle in. 

It was harder with Edward, he was already starting to think of Edward's pain as his own. But this pain was a necessary one, like the pain he'd felt when he'd been shot. It was a pain that must be endured if anything was ever going to get better.

Finished, he bandaged him carefully: just enough compression to hold everything together, without cutting off what blood flow was left. Edward was dozing. For one terrible moment Thomas thought all his effort had been in vain, but Edward woke easily when Thomas took him by the shoulder. It was only the morphine. He'd given him too much.

“We've got to go now, if... If that's what you really want.” It would probably be for the best if he stayed. He was out of immediate danger, but he'd do much better with Dr. Clarkson and all the nurses to look after him, surely? And then they'd send him off somewhere for mental cases, but wasn't that what he was? It was hard to deny it under the circumstances. Surely they'd be more help to him than Thomas could be.

“Please,” Edward said, struggling to sit up. “I don't think I can do it without you.” He didn't mean standing up, he meant all of it. Going on.

Thomas left him for a minute to get his rucksack. He took bandages and morphine and iodine, field rations, bread, blankets. He paused to consider before throwing his service revolver into the pack. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to use it if the need arose, kill one of his own countrymen, but he didn't want to leave it behind and then be caught short. 

Edward's bags had already been packed for him, when he was to have been sent away. Thomas carried it: with the rucksack of stolen supplies slung over his shoulders, that left him one arm to keep hold of Edward. It was hard enough for him to hold his stick, his arms wounded like that, but he would not leave it behind. Without it he would be completely helpless. As it was Thomas practically had to hold him upright.

It was raining. They went out into it, blankets draped over their shoulders. An umbrella would have been one more thing for them to carry. Edward looked paler and more miserable by the minute. There hadn't even been time for him to change out of his pajamas, though they'd got him into his socks and shoes at least. He prayed the rain would wash away their footprints in the mud. The mud brought back terrible memories, doubtless for both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

There was a little farm Thomas knew about, a few miles outside of the village. Husband had died years ago and his widow kept it running, with their sons. But then the war came and they both signed up and they both died and she'd gone and killed herself. It was empty now. 

It took them almost an hour to reach the farmhouse. Edward was tired and in pain, but he kept himself quiet. Thomas used a pair of medical scissors to jimmy open the lock. 

Thomas lit a fire. It was a risk, but he couldn't have Edward catch a chill on top of everything. They were both soaked through with rain. It was the middle of the night still, and surely they wouldn't notice they were gone until morning. He wasn't sure how much trouble they'd go to to track down a couple of wounded deserters. 

Edward sat down on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. He was shivering. He had already bled through his bandages, and looked like he was about to pass out. Thomas draped a crocheted afghan over his shoulders. For a moment, with the fire glinting off Edward's curls and his odd, milky eyes not quite staring at him but at least pointed in his direction, Thomas was overcome with emotion. He never would have risked so much for anyone, not even Phillip. But then Edward trusted him so completely, and Phillip never trusted him at all. Thomas kissed him, and Edward clung to him with his less worse arm, but his body was tense with pain.

“Do you need more morphine?” Thomas asked in a whisper, although there was no one around for miles.

“We mustn’t waste it,” Edward said.

“I took as much as I could find,” Thomas said, trying not to think about the other wounded men who'd have to go without in the morning. He'd had to go without in the field, they all had at some point. He gave Edward another injection and changed his bandages, dousing the wounds in carbolic acid.

Edward began to drift off as the morphine took effect. Thomas nudged him awake and helped him to the widow's bedroom. There was a double bed with a quilted counterpane, pillow cases trimmed with lace. Nothing Thomas would have chosen for himself and certainly not fine enough for Edward, were he able to see it, but in the lamplight it looked idyllic, and very soft.

He helped Edward out of what remained of his pajamas, which were muddy around the cuffs and stained with his blood.

“There might be another pair in the boys' room...” Thomas suggested. Edward shook his head. “We might have to leave in a hurry,” Thomas reminded him. 

“I'd rather be hung for a sheep as for a lamb,” Edward said, his hand on Thomas's arm.

“The idea is not to be hung at all,” Thomas replied. But he stripped off what was left of his own clothes, and they got into bed together.

They were both too tired to do much more than run their hands over eachother's naked skin and lazily kiss goodnight, but after what they'd been through it felt like an unimaginable luxury. Edward drifted off to sleep, leaving Thomas to wonder at all the mad, terrible things that had lead them here, as he held Edward in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

“I don't know why you think he would come here,” Lord Grantham protested. “He's nothing to do with us.”

“Robert,” Cora said, failing to keep the exasperation from her voice. “He did work here for four years before the war.”

“You wouldn't be protecting him, would you Lord Grantham?” Detective Farnham asked, and the Earl's eyebrows shot up as far as they would go.

“Now look here...” he began, but Cora cut him off diplomatically.

“Of course not, Detective. We want him found as much as you do. Please take as long as you like,” she said, and told Carson to have Mrs. Patmore make tea and sandwiches for Farnham's men.

It took twelve men all day and nearly 50 sandwiches to search the whole house top to bottom. Mrs. Hughes, Not willing to give up her keys to what she suspected was a slipshod operation, accompanied them to unlock what needed to be unlocked. Though surely, she had protested, if a door were locked the fugitive Barrow could hardly be behind it.

“He could've stolen a key when he worked here,” Farnham suggested.

“I assure you that all of my keys are present and accounted for,” Mrs. Hughes objected.

“Ah, but what if he had a copy made, and then returned the original?”

“Are you suggesting that Barrow, when he worked here _before the war_ , was already plotting the murder of a man he had never met?” Mrs. Hughes asked. Farnham, not impressed with her appeal to logic, found another door for her to unlock.

By evening the house had been searched to his satisfaction, and not a trace had been found of the fugitive.

“I expected nothing less,” the Earl proclaimed, though he looked relieved.

***

In the morning Thomas left Edward to explore the rest of the farmhouse. He'd wrapped the quilted counterpane around his shoulders, wary of wandering round a strange house in the altogether, but of course he met no one. There wasn't much left to explore, a kitchen with a pantry, the boy's room upstairs and a privy out back. 

The boys' civilian clothes were still there, hanging in a roughly hewn wardrobe. He put on the taller boy's trousers and woven shirt; they were still too short but would do in a pinch. They'd need civies if they were ever to leave this place and they could do worse than these rough workman's clothes, though they were certainly not to his taste. They were unobtrusive, even if they didn't fit properly.

He'd gone through the widow's wardrobe as well, on a whim. Her smallclothes could be cut into bandages if nothing else. The supplies he took from the infirmary wouldn't last forever, though when he tried to plot out their future he had a hard enough time getting them through the day; he feared he had already lead them into a dead end. They should have stolen car, driven to the coast before anyone knew they were gone. If only he knew how to drive.

He found his great coat and the blankets they'd stolen from the hospital strewn conspicuously around the sitting room. He put them in the pantry to get them out of the way. Thomas was no cook, and the farmer's widow had left him precious little to work with, but there were a few tins of Heinz baked beans, some potted meat that smelled foul and a jar of peaches he decided to save for later. Most importantly there was tea.

The root cellar nearly escaped his notice altogether. There was only a dusty hatch on the pantry floor. Thomas noted it's existence for future reference, but didn't want to waste a candle on exploring it just yet.

***

“No toast, I'm afraid,” Thomas said, placing a plate before Edward. The widow had left half a loaf of bread, but it was molded over. Edward had made it down the stairs on his own, entice by the smell of cooking. Thomas was impressed, but he knew that praising him for it would sting like an insult.

Edward was wearing the old woman's quilted dressing gown, which she'd left hanging on a hook on the bedroom door. He should have looked ridiculous in it, but he didn't. His bandaged arms peaked out from the too short sleeves. Thomas wished he'd thought of taking Edward away with him before he'd tried to kill himself. He wished he'd known him before that war, that they'd been smart enough to stay out of it altogether. But then he thought that that Edward, young and healthy with the world at his feet, wouldn't have looked at him twice.

“What are you thinking about?” Edward asked, reaching out for him across the kitchen table. Thomas took his hand and instantly his expression softened.

“I'm hoping this potted meat tastes better than it smells,” he said.

They ate in amiable silence, Edward still holding Thomas's hand across the table. Thomas had been afraid he would turn up his nose at tinned beans and meat, as he himself would have done in less desperate straights, but Edward was beyond caring. 

“Could you make more tea?” Edward asked, when they'd finished off the pot.

“We'd best preserve our water. I don't know how long it will last us.”

“I thought this was a farm. Isn't there a well?” Thomas was silent. Edward could almost smell his apprehension. “What is it?” he demanded.

“There was a well, but it's no good now.” He told Edward the story of how the house came to be empty. “She threw herself down it, when she got the news.”

“Christ.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, I got distracted by another dead boy on a totally different show.

4.

“I hate the smell of iodine,” Edward said, as Thomas slathered his wounds in the pungent orange liquid. Edward winced at the pain but did not pull away.

“Last thing we need is you getting an infection.” Thomas said. “First sign of fever I'm taking you back to the hospital.”

“And ruin all our plans?” Edward asked, though as far as Thomas could tell they had no plans.

“You could lose your arms,” Thomas said.

“I'd rather die,” Edward replied, far too casually. “What do we do now?”

“You need to rest and I need to think.”

“Don't shut me out of this,” Edward pleaded. “I might be blind but I'm not simple.” Thomas sighed.

“I never thought you were simple,” Thomas protested. “But you really do need to rest.” Edward pulled at his arms, started pulling him towards the staircase.

“I don't know what'll become of us, and I suppose I've proved myself incapable of thinking under pressure. But we're here now, on the edge of nowhere, and we're gloriously alone. I want you in my arms. Please, Thomas. Let's go back to that wonderful bed and put the thinking off for an hour or two. Then we can work through this together. But now I just want what we could never have in that hospital, with the whole bloody army breathing down our necks.”

“Of course,” Thomas said, letting Edward lead him up the stairs. “Of course.”

Thomas had rarely experienced any real privacy; servants live in close quarters and in the army it was even closer. Of course he knew as well as anyone that the privacy enjoyed by the rich was an illusion. There was always someone like him, just out of sight, listening. Here it was different, they were really alone. He could undo the sash of Edward's dressing gown and let it fall to the floor where they stood, he could gaze upon the beauty of Edward's naked form without fear or shame.

He stood still as Edward's hands found the buttons of his shirt, letting himself be undressed, letting Edward's long graceful fingers explore his body. He reached out for Edward's slender waist and Edward's hands moved up to cup his face. Edward kissed him passionately, desperately, unwilling to break contact even as Thomas guided him to the bed, afraid of losing his lips. Careful of his arms, Thomas pulled Edward down on top of him.

Edward never closed his eyes when they kissed, and so Thomas didn't either. He felt guilty watching Edward so closely when the option had been forever stolen from Edward, but he could not tear his eyes away. Edward managed to unbutton Thomas's trousers and took his cock in hand, an action Thomas reciprocated.

Edward came quickly, overwhelmed by sensations as arousing as they were confusing, divorced from the context sight would have placed them in. He was bombarded by new textures, smells, tastes, surprised by un-foreshadowed touches. The textures of Thomas's skin, the callouses on his hand and the softness of his thighs, the thick hair on his chest that Edward loved to stroke. The sound that he made was quiet but spontaneous, between a laugh and a sigh. They could be as loud as they wanted, here, though both of them had been more or less conditioned to silence.

After, he pinned Thomas with a hand on his chest, preventing him from getting up to clean up the mess he'd made, and slithered down his supine body until he found his erection with his lips.

Thomas felt larger in his mouth than he had in his hands. He loved the taste of him.

“I'm usually the one on my knees,” Thomas said, though it wasn't an accurate description of their relative positions, Edward was bending over him, lying on his side.

“Do you like it?” Edward asked.

“Not as much as you, apparently.”


	5. Chapter 5

5.

"If only I could see you!" Edward exclaimed. He was laughing.

"I never should have told you what I were doing," Thomas said, but he was glad to see Edward happy for once.

“Let us never have secrets between us," Edwards said, his fingers on Thomas's leg-a-mutton sleeve. Thomas wished Edward could see him. He looked ridiculous. The widow was a broad woman who'd spent a good deal of time in full morning, even before the deaths of her sons. She had at some point, in what was for Thomas a remarkable stroke of luck, taken to wearing a full veil, although the practice had gone out of fashion years ago. 

 

**

Thomas was terrified. It had seemed like a good enough plan back at the farmhouse, but as he approached the village it felt madder and madder. 

They were running out of food. Luckily market day had come before they reached the point of desperation. He didn't have a ration book, not one without his name on it, or the name of a dead woman on it. He wasn't talented at voices anyhow, not having Mr. Carson's music hall past, so he couldn't ask a shopkeeper for anything without giving the game away. He'd have to steal, or glean what had rolled off the back of the carts at the end of the day, and they were more careful about that than they had been before the war. He didn't feel bad about it, but it was a risk, and if he wasn't lucky it would be about the most embarrassing way to be caught he could think of. 

But Thomas knew he couldn't escape notice just by changing into civies. He'd lived in Downton for four years, he couldn't expect to walk into the village and go unrecognized. But England was full of widows now, and of old women in morning, no one looked at them twice. Hopefully not even if they were unusually tall. As he approached the village he made a conscious effort to stoop. He'd had to lengthen the sleeves by adding a ruffle he'd taken off another dress, and his petticoat showed beneath his skirts. At least it was black. He hoped it didn't look too strange. At least not as strange as his protruding wrists would have looked, and his soldiers' boots. But you could forgive an old widow for looking slovenly, and because she was working class there were plenty of pockets. 

The world looked strange through his veil. He had to keep reminding himself that no one could see his face. It felt as though he were the one who was exposed, but in the end he didn't have any trouble at all. He left with three potatoes, two turnips and a herring in his pockets. He couldn't get close enough to the meat and the bread was too big, though he longed for a slice of toast.

**

 

He returned to find Edward rummaging through his duffel bag. He was just in time to see him pick up Thomas's revolver.

“Please!” he shouted. “Put that down. It's not safe.”

“I know what it is,” Edward said. “I'm not an idiot. I had one of my own, remember?”

“I know you did.”

“Are you afraid I'll shoot you? On accident? Or perhaps on purpose?” he joked. It made Thomas uncomfortable. “I don't think I could shoot you on purpose. I can't imagine my aim's gotten any better.”

“I'm afraid you'll shoot yourself.”

“Why did you even bring it?” Edward asked.

“I wish I hadn't,” Thomas said. “I thought there might be trouble,” he admitted.

“You'd shoot a policeman?” Edward asked. Thomas was silent. “Do you think you could?”

“None of us knows what we're capable of 'til be do it,” Thomas answered. 

“I'd shoot a policeman for you,” Edward said, too lightly. “If I thought I had any chance of hitting the blighter.”


	6. Chapter 6

6.

Thomas didn't know what to do with him when he was like this. He ran his fingers up Edward's arm and gently removed the pistol from his grasp, placing it back in the duffel bag while his other hand stroked Edward's hair.

“It's so hard when you're not here. Nothing but birds chirping and the wind in the trees. I'll go mad.”

“I'll never leave you for long,” Thomas promised him. “Not if I can help it.”

“What if you can't help it? What if something happens to you?”

“I don't know,” Thomas admitted. “Someone will find you.”

“And then what? I'm just as much of a criminal as you are.”

“You're not, though. You can get out of this.”

“Because I didn't steel three potatoes of the back of a cart?”

“You know why.”

“Because I'm out of my head, you mean.”

“I don't think you're mad. But you know how it looks. You can use that your advantage. Tell them I kidnapped you. Whatever it takes to protect yourself.”

“So that they'll sent me to a madhouse instead the gallows? When the whole thing only started because I'd rather die than be parted from you?”

“If they send me to the gallows I don't want to be thinking about how I've killed you as well with this mad scheme of mine. I'd want to know that you're alright. That someone's taking care of you.”

“I don't want someone.” 

Thomas made them dinner with his ill gotten turnips. Edward was in a strange mood all night. Thomas hadn't liked leaving him either, but it couldn't be helped. It must be awful to sit all day, with nothing but a head full of bad memories. Thomas could still see them sometimes, the bodies. He reckoned Edward saw them too. He reckoned Edward saw them all the time.

“Could you read me something?” Edward asked. “Is there anything at all?”

“There's a bible,” Thomas said, scanning the room. Edward made a face.

“Not that.”

“I thought I saw some books in the boys' room,” Thomas said. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Edward liked poetry but there wasn't any poetry. There wasn't much at all. Some books for youngboys he wasn't about to suggest. War stories, that was even worse. Ah, _The Amateur Cracksman,_ that one was all right. And there was the rest of the series.

“I read all the Raffles books as a boy, that'll do nicely,” Edward said when he told him what he found.

“My mother never liked me reading them,” Thomas said. “She thought they'd give me ideas.”

“Evidently she was right.” Edward said. Thomas opened the book and, remembering, decided to skip the first chapter. 

“Mind you, I always thought he was too cruel to Bunny,” he said. 

“Did you?” I always thought they were in love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Amateur Cracksman is the first in a series of books from the late Victorian/early Edwardian period about A. J. Raffles, gentleman thief, and his sidekick Bunny. They're in the public domain and available for free in various places on the internet, such as this site: https://sites.google.com/site/theannotatedajraffles/. Thomas skips the first chapter because Bunny considers suicide over a debt he is unable to pay, though as it's the first chapter it's not too much of a spoiler to say that he doesn't.


	7. Chapter 7

7.

Thomas didn't like to think about what would have become of them if he hadn't, by chance, glanced out the window just as the car came into view. There was another car soon after it, both jam packed with policemen.

“Damn,” he said, grabbing Edward by the shoulder. “They're here.” They were in the bedroom, on the first floor, which granted them a higher vantage point but meant the path to safety was all the farther. “Perhaps if we turn ourselves in they'll be merciful,” he said, more for Edward's sake than his own. He'd seen men shot for running away from certain death, an instinctual reaction almost impossible not to obey. But there was hope for Edward, they'd send him to a hospital instead.

“I have no faith in the mercy of the army,” Edward said. Doubtless he'd seen the same.

“We can make it to the root cellar if we hurry.”

The root cellar was barely large enough for the two of them, but Thomas didn't mind. The press of Edward's arm was his only comfort as he crouched there in total darkness, clutching his revolver. They sat listening for what seemed like hours to the footsteps of the policemen, sometimes faint and far away, sometimes terrifyingly close. They could only communicate through touch, 'I'm here' they said silently to each other, and 'no matter what happens it happens to both of us.' 

They waited for a long time after they couldn't hear any footsteps before they dared to breathe a little louder. Finally Thomas spoke.

“There's something wrong. Why did they send so many men after us? It doesn't make any sense. There'd never been more than three or four when...” when someone did a runner in France, he meant, but he didn't need to say it.

**

They were up half the night arguing about it.

“I want to stay here,” Edward said. “We should be safe now, shouldn't we? Now that they've searched and found nothing? I feel safe here, safer than I have for a long time.” 

“I don't,” Thomas said. They were safer than on the front, for sure, but that was an extremely low bar. “They'll keep coming back, or someone will. This place is too tempting.”

“I've been happy, these past few days. Is it so ridiculous to think we could have a real home together?” Thomas felt as though he'd been struck. It shouldn't be ridiculous, but they couldn't, not here. Maybe not anywhere.

“And what, get the farm running again? There's no food here, those turnips were the last of it. There isn't even anything to steal. I can't go to the village dressed as a pantomime dame every day.”

“I couldn't ask you too. But... I can't imagine we'll be safer in the city. All those people.” Edward was a country gentleman, he distrusted towns and anything larger.

“We're not going to the city, we're going to Downton,” Thomas said. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about it.

“Downton? You're mad!”

“It sounds mad, which is why we'll be safe. They'll have searched it already and Grantham won't let them search it again. He wouldn't permit the disruption.”

“But there must be two dozen people at Downton! We couldn't help but be found.”

“Not if we're clever, and we are clever,” Thomas assured him. He hoped he was right.


	8. Chapter 8

8.

Their last day at the farmhouse was tense. Edward was still reluctant to leave the relative safety they had found there, but for Thomas the place was tainted now. He was forever imagining the sound of policemen's footsteps. He was anxious to get moving, but it would be madness the approach Downton during the day. There was nothing for them to do but wait. 

“Did you lug this thing all the way here?” Edward asked, running his fingers over the embossed mongramme of his suitcase. “I don't even know what's in it.”

“Really?” Thomas asked.

“Well I didn't pack it,” Edward answered. He undid the latch and turned it to face Thomas.

“It's just your uniform and your letters,” Thomas said.

“In that case you can burn the lot,” Edward proclaimed. “I'll never wear my uniform again, and as for the letters they're no use to me, I can't read them.”

“I could read them to you.”

“You already have. They only make me angry,” Edward said. 

“You know you might never be able to see them again, your family,” Thomas said.

“I'll never see anyone again!” Edward exclaimed. Thomas felt terrible, not for his figure of speech but for the rest of it.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” It would be one less thing for him to carry. Edward's arms had still not healed sufficiently for him to assist with the heavy lifting. He slipped one of the letters into his pocket in case Edward might change his mind, and shoved the suitcase under the wardrobe where it would be out of the way. It didn't matter now if it was found. It could only tell them where they'd been, not where they were going.

***

Finally it was midnight and Thomas deemed it safe for them to go. It was a clear night and the air was still and warm, he only hoped they wouldn't be too visible under the moonlight. 

Thomas knew Downton like the back of his hand. He knew how to get in after curfew and how much food you could squirrel away before someone noticed, and he know all about the rooms they keep shut until summer to save on heat. He lead Edward to the back of the house, where there was a window with a broken latch.

“Take off your shoes,” he whispered, bending to untie his own. He zipped up both of their shoes into his rucksack and handed it Edward. “Is that too heavy?” he asked.

“I think I can manage,” Edward replied. Thomas lead him to the window ledge. It was just over their heads, and he showed Edward where it was with his hand. 

“I'll want you to hand it up to me once I'm inside, then I'll pull you up,” he explained. Edward looked trepidatious. 

“Couldn't you run round and open the back door?” he asked.

“I've not got the key,” Thomas said. “I'll be careful with you.” He got a foot hold on the space between the stones and hoisted himself up to the windowsill. "Stand back a bit. I'd not want to kick you in the face.” He pushed at the window and it emitted a long whine as it swung open. He was still for a moment, listening for footsteps, but no one had heard it. 

He pushed up onto the window ledge. It was just deep enough for him to turn around and enter the room feet first. It was a small sitting room and there was a side table in front of the window, just as there had always been. He carefully moved between the various vases and knickknacks and stepped onto the floor. He moved the table away from the window and leaned out towards Edward.

“I'm in,” he said, reaching out for Edward's hand. When he was sure Edward was directly under the window, he asked for the bag. Edward emitted a faint sigh of pain as he hoisted it above his head. Thomas took it from him as quickly as possible and set it on the floor besides him. 

“There's a chink in the rock about a foot and a half above the ground, can you find it?” he asked, taking Edward's hand again. He waited a moment as Edward felt the stone wall with his stockinged foot.

“Yes, here it is.”

“Good, hold up your arms.” Thomas leaned as far as he could out the window and grasped Edward by the elbows, above where he had cut himself. “Are you ready?”

“I think so,” Edward replied. It was rough work for both of them, but he managed to pull Edward in through the window. It had always seemed so easy crawling in on his own, after a late night at the pub or a more illicit assignation. He'd done it half drunk a dozen times; sometimes the hardest part had been to keep from laughing. Now that he had someone else to worry about everything had become deadly serious.


	9. Chapter 9

9.

Thomas lead Edward through the room and down the hall to the summer wing, up the stairs to the room he had chosen for them, cherished in his mind for years to no particular purpose, until now. It was dark, but he had the advantage of familiarity. He knew just where he was going, having often spent his off hours exploring the less traversed avenues of the house. In his mind he had filled them with fabulous intrigue and operatic loves, so different from the petty machinations that occupied everyone else here, both above and below stairs. 

The room was the least popular in Downton. It was an odd shape, an odd colour (a sort of dark chartreuse) and drafty. Still, it was more luxurious than anywhere Thomas could have hoped to lay his head. As he pulled the drop cloths from the Luis XVI furniture he felt like a prince. He'd spent his time at Downton surrounded by opulence, but this was different. It was theirs, at least for the time being.

“What does it look like?” Edward asked.

“It's beautiful. Green and gold.”

“It's chilly,” Edward said.

“I'll run you a bath,” Thomas promised.

The room had an en suite with a massive tub. The water wasn't quite as warm as they had hoped, but neither of them had had a bath for days, and Edward groaned with pleasure as he lowered himself in. Thomas had bathed him before, in the hospital, sitting up in a cramped stainless steel basin, with a hard brush and terrible smelling hospital soap, no privacy and daring only the most indifferent of touches. Still he had loved every minute of it.

But this was altogether different. Here he could stretch out has legs as Thomas caressed him with a bar of lilac scented soap, his calloused fingers turned velvet under the water. He washed Edward's hair and shaved him, with all the skill and gentleness of a master barber. Finally he kissed him and took him in hand, stroking him slowly under the water.

“Is this how you'd treat your Lord Grantham?” Edward asked, playfully.

“Don't be daft,” Thomas scoffed.

“You must have been a marvelous valet, even without the extra attention.” Thomas neglected to mention that he's really only been a footman. He'd subbed as a valet, for guests and when Bates had been ill, though. He would have been marvelous.

“You don't know how much I wanted to do this in hospital. I'd think about it all day, whether I could pull it off with no one noticing.”

“I wish you'd tried,” Edward gasped, as Thomas's hand moved faster and faster.

“You're mad.”

“Come in with me please, there's room,” he begged.

“Let me get my clothes off.”

He was alone for a moment, with only a faint rustling noise to assure him that Thomas hadn't left the room. But then he returned and covered Edward's body with his own, warming the cooling water with the heat of his body, velvet all over, gently holding Edward's head out of the water as they kissed.

They rutted against each other, first lazily then suddenly frantic, until they both came. Thomas helped him out of the tub and then pulled the plug, letting the evidence of their crime flow untraceable down the drain.

Afterward Thomas changed Edward's bandages. 

“It'll be time to take the stitches out soon,” he promised.

“I can't wait,” Edward replied sleepily, letting his head fall back onto Thomas's shoulder.


End file.
